Danse Macabre
by TrinityCowgirl
Summary: After her last whispered words brought Raoul face to face with the Phantom, the Vicomte thought he could finally move on. What he didn't expect, however, was to be haunted by the Opera Ghost himself. E/R
1. A Call to Arms

As a young boy, Raoul had never considered himself envious of Dante; despite the promise of paradise, Hell was not a place he'd ever wanted to venture through. He was certain that being confined with monsters, both man and beast alike, was enough to drive a sane man mad. No thank you, Vergil, he would rather reaffirm his faith on his own and skip the experience of eternal damnation. Seeing the castigation men faced after death was not something extraordinarily high on his list of things to do.

And yet here he was, once more delving into the depths of his own personal Hell. He made no attempt at stealth, knowing it to be unnecessary. Certainly if that monster of a man was alive, he was fully aware that Raoul was here. So what kept him alive in his descent to the lair? Either the Ghost was dead and gone, the Opera rid of its problematic poltergeist, or he was lurking farther below and plotting something horrible.

Honestly, he wasn't sure which idea worried him more. If the ghost was lying in wait for his arrival, he was dead the second he saw the lake, certainly a thought to put a damper on his afternoon. If he was gone, though, having been burned to a crisp in the fire that'd taken the opera out for a year, then Christine…

Ah. Christine. Rubbing his eyes in an attempt not to break down _here_, of all places, he pressed on. She was what had brought him here now, and the times before.

_It had been around two in the morning when a shift in the mattresses' weight had stirred him slightly. He'd shrugged it off as nothing, attempting to fall asleep once more. For some time, it felt as though the elusive dreamland would come to claim him once more; it never did. He'd rolled over and mumbled something to Christine, expecting his blushing bride to be in bed beside him; it was quite the unpleasant surprise to find that she was gone. Hopping up immediately, Raoul had tried to calm his mind from its frenzied state and think _rationally; _far easier said than done._

_He'd managed to shrug on a more appropriate outfit for facing the world, and was wrestling on his left shoe when he'd found the note._

"_Love,_

_Hopefully you'll sleep soundly tonight and not find this, but if you do, I've gone to visit my father. I'm just having a bit of trouble sleeping tonight, no need for worry. I'll be back soon!_

_Yours,_

_Christine."_

_Raoul scowled at the note, rather annoyed with its contents; surely Christine remembered the last time she'd gone to visit his grave alone! Swearing vehemently under his breath, he took off in a dash to the stables, mounting his horse and riding off in pursuit of his beloved._

_The first few minutes of the ride passed without incident; adrenaline and worry drove him as quickly as possible, hunting desperately for signs of Christine. On the outskirts of Paris, however, he'd been stopped by a desperate cab driver, beaten to what could reasonably be considered a pulp._

_"'Ey! You! Come 'ere, ah' need your 'elp, sir!" His plea was somewhere between a sob and a rasp that horrified Raoul. Dropping from the horse as quickly as possible, he followed after the driver._

_"Tell me what happened."_

_"I was drivin' 'er. ju' as usual. Then some," he waved a hand dramatically at this, the poor cap still clutched firmly in the other, "maniac pulls us o'er. Rob'ry. Pulls tha girl out, an... an' I make a run fer it. Last things I 'ear are a scream an' a gunshot, an' tha's a good bi' ago. Then ya showed up, an'" he admitted this quietly, glancing over to where the body lay. "'oor girl. Didn' do a thing, 'n this is 'ow it 'appens."_

_  
"No." The world suddenly felt like it was crashing, seeing Christine laying on the ground. Rushing over and kneeling beside her, the tears streamed down his cheeks. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This was-_

_  
"Raoul." The name was practically silent, nothing more than a ghost on her pale lips. Taking his love's hand within his own, speech failed him. Whoever had shot the gun… his aim had been horribly off, but he arrived too late. She wasn't going to make it._

_"Raoul, love… one favor, please," she murmured gently, looking up to him with pleading eyes. Choking back a sob to speak, he nodded._

"_Don't say that, Little Lotte, you're going to make it! It's going to be alright! We'll get you a doctor, an-"_

"_Love." Her words quieted him once more, though they did nothing to help the falling tears. Pulling her other hand to gently caress his face, she smiled weakly. "You.. you must tell him I forgive him."_

_He paled at that- surely, she couldn't mean…_

_  
"Who, Christine?" He asked weakly, both worried for her both mentally and physically._

"_You very well know, Raoul," she said quietly, lips pursed ever-so-slightly. Expression softening once more, she continued. "And… tell him… tell him I'm sorry, too… that I l…"_

"_You what, my love?" he choked, trying not to think. God, no, she was dying. _He _wasn't supposed to be on her mind, _anyone_ but _him..

"_Lov.." Her head lulled gently, and Raoul knew she was gone; the only woman he loved dead in his arms in the cold streets of Paris. Somehow, it only hurt worse to know that she had been thinking of _him _when she went._

It had taken some convincing Mme. Giry, but eventually she'd led him to one of the entrances. He wasn't aware of where it was at all; she'd made certain to keep the Ghost safe from everyone, and wasn't about to risk that now.

"_Is he still alive?" He'd asked tentatively, shifting uneasily in the doorway. She glanced up at him from her work, a scowl fixed on her features._

_  
"I cannot tell you, vicomte. It is for you to discover on your own."_

So here he was. Cold, alone, and descending into the pits of hell he'd only escaped from but a year ago. Maybe if he was lucky, one of them would be killed; himself, so he could see Christine once more, or the Ghost, so he wouldn't have to deal with him. That would be nice. Fumbling his way through the darkness, Raoul proceeded on as cautiously as possible.

Down that path into darkness deep as hell. Damn Dante and Vergil, this trip was nothing like he'd imagined.


	2. Down Once More

The first thing that struck Raoul on entering the lair was that it was bone-chillingly cold. Absently, he wondered if it was possible for a living person to contract hypothermia down here; certainly, the lake chilled the air enough for it to be possible. How, then, had the Opera Ghost survived down here alone? Probably all of the candles that surrounded his study, or something to that effect. The ghost likely didn't spend much time by the lake, where it was the coldest. He certainly wouldn't, if this were his home.

The place certainly looked different when you weren't fighting a madman for the woman you loved; maybe it was just the different entrance he'd come in. Either way, it was certainly very becoming of the Opera Ghost. The underground cavern certainly went along well with his image; cold, and generally unpleasant. Smirking lightly at his own joke, Raoul took a moment to look around. Certainly, the ghost would be here already, if he was alive? From all of the stories circling the Opera Populaire about the man, and his own experiences, Raoul was certain he would've been here to take care of him by now…

The lasso! Swearing vehemently under his breath, Raoul barely noticed the footsteps in time, only _just_ managing to pull his hand to his eyes. Thank god for Mme. Giry, he would already be dead if not for her advice. Still, the holding of his arm would only keep him alive for so long; the ghost probably had another plan ready to kill him. Writhing under the rope's steady hold at his neck, Raoul panicked. Just what was he supposed to do to get this thing off?

"Were you really that eager to die, _boy_, that you came to grace me with the pleasure?" The familiar voice growled behind him as something moved to pull the noose tighter. Still shifting in a frenzied state to free himself from the rope, Raoul made no move to look at or speak to the ghost. Surviving, for now, was his priority. Frantically drawing his rapier with his free hand, he began a frantic swing behind his back in an attempt to dispel the ghost. If he could just _seem_ like he knew what he was doing, he could at least work from there.

The blade of the rapier struck _something_, and Raoul felt the rope slacken slightly at his neck- the ghost had moved back! Grabbing the lengthier bit of rope, Raoul quickly turned it to drape at his front; here, at least, he would have a constant eye on it. Whirling around to face the ghost, he snarled. It'd been intended as speaking, only for Raoul to find his throat still was sore from the lasso's presence. At least, that's how he'd reasoned it out with himself.

At this point, Raoul realized that if he could get a footing on the stairway, he'd definitely have the upper hand; he'd be on higher ground. The ghost, however, continued with a strong onslaught of attacks. Unless he could find some way to turn this around, he was dead meat. The phantom was stronger than he was, and knowing this underground hell better than most men knew themselves, Raoul was in trouble. God, if the ghost was still as crafty as ever ( A fact which Raoul did not doubt in the slightest), he was probably walking himself into a trap right now. If he was to survive this duel at all, he was going to have to make a stand now.

Blocking an unusually weak attack, Raoul found himself with the time to react and more; moving backward with a couple of quick steps, he made a lunge to knock off the Phantom's mask. If his memory served him right, the monster would refuse to face him without it. It worked far better than he'd originally intended it, though. The ghost began a retreat down the stairs, leaving a very shocked Raoul at the top. It had… actually worked? Caught off guard for a moment, he hesitated. Surely the Ghost was a tougher opponent than this? Or maybe the monster [had] been broken when Christine had left.

Either way, if the Ghost disappeared, Raoul was likely to fall victim to a trap _and_ be unable to carry out Christine's will. Scrambling down the stairs in an attempt to catch the now-retreating monster, he idly wondered what drove him. Adrenaline? Revenge? Christine? He was certain one of those, if not a mixture of them, drove him downward, taking the steps two at a time. And why not? By god, the ghoul was running from him! At the bottom of the stairway, he made his move; lunging out at the right to try for his stomach, only to be moved away by the demon's contre-carte parry. Should Raoul not have been dueling the man, he would've rather admired the excellent swordsmanship this monster displayed. God, he was just as talented with a sword as Raoul, if not more so!

Now thrown off balance, it took Raoul several steps backward to find his footing once more, all the while attempting to block a series of quick-footed attacks. This, likely, had been the ghost's plan. Dropping back in an attempt to lean himself against the stairway, there seemed to be a moment where Raoul simply hung in the air- without anything to lean against, however, he was quickly readjusting to try and defend himself from the ground. Damn in all- he'd over judged the distance. Worse than that was while he seemed to be growing more tired, the ghost wasn't relenting in his attacks. If he didn't figure out something to do, and soon, he'd wind up another dead body in the basement of the Populaire.

"Monsieur! Please!" He cried, growing weaker and weaker in his defenses. The monster before him snarled, raining another heavy blow upon his rapier.

"Why should I listen to you, Vicomte? Have you come to laugh at me? To reopen my wounds over the woman I loved?" His tone was downright terrifying- enough to send a chill down Raoul's spine. Fortunately, the attacks had stopped- at the very least, he was now closer to his goal. Holding up a pleading hand, dropping his rapier in his hesitation. The ghost was not forgiving- taking the opportunity, he made to slash at the Vicomte's shoulder; Raoul was barely fortunate enough to roll to the side.

Right. So now, not only was the ghost angered, but he'd dropped his rapier in his haste. Wonderful. Turning and fleeing as fast as possible, Raoul was purely running on fear- each step he took away from the murderer seemed to put him closer to his pursuer instead of further. Turning his back to the wall ahead of him, Raoul was forced to dodge several more attacks- a basic stab, another swipe at his face, even jumping to protect his knees.

"I came to speak with you!" Raoul rasped, definitely on his last wind now. Leaning against the wall, he stared down the beast with some sort of insane determination, managing at a just audible level "…civilly."

"Civilly?" The ghost asked, humor leaking into his words. Brandishing his own sword, the masked man tilted his head to the side a bit, scowl turning to a more terrible grin. "Civilly? Is that what you call breaking into a man's home to mock his loss of the woman he loved? Is _that_ what you call speaking to me of how happily the two of you are married? How much you love her every n-"

"She's dead." Those horrible words had jumped to his throat before Raoul could even stop himself, and the ghost's humor faded quickly. Swallowing heavily, Raoul forced himself to stand a bit more upright, as to not look so pathetic against the wall.

"Beg pardon, Vicomte?" He asked, voice totally devoid of emotions.

"Christine- she. A robbery. She's gone." He whispered, voice cracking uncomfortably in the middle of his explanation. The memory would've been enough to set him off once more had the ghost not dropped the sword he'd been waving moments ago. Stepping forward, Raoul attempted to speak, words garbling in his mouth before he could say them. What _could_ he say?

"Enough of your lies. Get out."

"I jus-"

"Get. OUT." He was not quite yelling yet, but the sudden tensing of the ghost's shoulders and the force of his tone told Raoul that this was a situation not worth pursuing. Hurrying from the wall he'd been propped on toward the stairs, Raoul wondered how horribly he'd just made life at the Populaire. And if Giry heard of what he'd done… shuddering at the thought, he quickly scrambled for the stairway he'd entered from, not bothering to look back on the ghost. Focusing on his fear rather than anything else, it seemed that the trip back from that horrid place was far faster than the one there.

Or maybe it was just how quickly he propelled himself, unwilling to listen to the broken sobs behind him.


	3. Reconciliation

There was peace in the Opera Populaire for all of a day; there was no thundering organ music, no rehearsals, and most of the crew was out for some alone time- as they deserved to be. Raoul, however, had taken the opportunity to reconnect with the Giry's; since Christine's untimely passing, being around them had nearly been unbearable. But today, in the peace of the house's downtime, he agreed to tea. In his time away from the two, he'd forgotten how wonderful- Meg, with her optimism and beautiful smile (another lifetime, he mused humorously, and he might have fallen for her. Sadly, all he can see in her brightly lit eyes are the ghosts of a lost friendship) and Madame Giry, with her overtly motherly nature and elegance. The conversation was light and easy- Meg mostly guiding it by talking of the show, and Mme. Giry commenting on its progress. He'd promised to come, of course, even if the shows pained him anymore. The Marriage of Figaro had been one of his favorites, and as Patron… well. It was a downright insult not to attend the show.

"Meg," the elder Giry spoke during a lapse in conversation, "would you be so kind as to run and heat us another pot of tea?"

"Of course!" Meg chirped quickly, politely excusing herself and ducking out of the room. It was always entertaining, seeing the girl out of her usual Ballerina's garb. There'd been the night of Don Juan Triumphant, when he'd heard the news of the ghost's 'death'- clad in men's trousers with her hair tied up, she had been terribly dangerous and beautiful. Mme. Giry had kept silent as her daughter produced the phantom's mask, announcing that the lair had been empty. Looking back, he wondered why he'd believed such a story. It wasn't that he didn't love and trust the family, it was simply…

…Well. Mme. Giry always had been connected to the monster. It really seemed foolish that he hadn't even considered she'd protected him.

"I take it you found who you were looking for?" She questioned, snapping Raoul out of his own thoughts. Smiling weakly at her, he set his cup on the saucer.

"I did. It wasn't the friendliest of meetings," he admitted, nervously laughing at the memory of the swordfight, "but I found him. Alive and well, surprisingly enough." At this, he picked up his teacup, giving Mme. Giry just enough of a look to show his discomfort. Forcing her cup to the table with an audible clink, the woman leered at him, unease suddenly setting into her shoulders.

"Do not give me that look, monsieur," she sternly snapped, and Raoul understood suddenly why the ballerinas feared her so. "I may care for you, but I practically raised him. When no one else would show compassion, I was there. He is practically my son." She eased out of her anger here, sadness suddenly taking her features. _Funny_, he thought, _how much older we look when we are troubled._

"I used to sing to him, when I was a younger woman." Their gazes broke at this as Mme. Giry looked away, brow furrowed slightly. "He was so young- so small, monsieur. You would not believe him capable of Don Juan Triumphant. I devoted myself to keeping him safe, before Meg arrived- when she was born, I could not give him so much time." The conversation lulled here, as though she was reminiscing over times long gone. This was probably why they got on so well, even now- the terrible feeling of losing all you love. He'd simply lost Christine, but Giry- Giry had lost her husband, the boy she'd considered her son… clearing his throat a bit, Raoul looked up the older woman.

"I'm sorry." It was simple and quiet, but the look she gave him was one of appreciation. Vaguely, he wondered if anyone had ever stopped to say such a thing to her.

"It is not your burden, monsieur- nor is your wife's death. None of us blame you, not even E-"

But whatever she had been about to say was cut off as Meg returned with the tea, setting it on the table and flashing Raoul her best smile. Returning a much-weaker one of his own, he wondered what exactly Mme. Giry had been saying. In all likelihood, he was probably never going to know.

"It's funny," Meg spoke up, looking pointedly to Raoul. "The ghost has been quiet these past few days, not even playing his organ. I've grown so used to hearing it, it's unsettling now that he's stopped. Even after…" she paused, here, realizing exactly how uncomfortable a topic Christine still was, and flushed a deep red.

"Well! Even when he's been upset, there's always been the music. I simply find it odd that it's stopped." Meg took her own cup of tea to her lips, a demure look offsetting the mischievous air she seemed to be giving off. Or maybe Raoul was just being paranoid. Adjusting his cravat with some degree of unease, he turned and shot the girl's mother a silent plea for help.

"I would suggest going to speak with him, dear," Mme. Giry commented, not breaking the Vicomte's gaze even as she addressed her daughter, "but I do not think it wise, considering his present mood. If he does not resume playing in three days, I shall speak to him myself."

The honesty was a refreshing change of pace. With the managers and other actors and crew, it was difficult to tell what was a story and what was true. Too many ballerinas had spoken off ghostly touches from the man, and stagehands had blamed their own faults upon the ghost. But with the Giry's, it (thankfully) wasn't a worry. In privacy, all three spoke openly of their knowledge of the ghost- it had been that way since Christine's death. It had been too worrisome, Mme. Giry had admitted quietly, for the Vicomte to be the Opera Populaire's patron, and not know what could possibly kill him. Besides that, if there was to be some semblance of normalcy in this place, the two would have to peacefully communicate. Salary negotiations, casting, that business. It'd been frustrating, but in the end, Raoul had relented to the woman's advice.

_It is better to be frustrated than dead_.

"I could speak to him." When the two women glanced up to look at him, Raoul gave an uneasy sort of shrug, particularly unsure of the words that had just left his mouth. When they turned that eerily similar, questioning look on him, he continued.

"I believe it to be my fault- that the music has stopped," he was speaking to Meg now, finding her easier to look in the eyes than her mother. When she bit her lip, a confusing sort of unease taking her face, Raoul chanced a look at her mother. The concerned gleam in her eyes wasn't terribly reassuring.

"That would be unwise, monsieur," she said uneasily, lowering the cup she had just barely taken hold of. Folding her hands in her lap, Mme. Giry regarded him a moment- that terribly unnerving gaze that could make even the most innocent of children find themselves guilty of _something_- and sighed. "It would be like leading lambs to the slaughter- your death is not something I wish to be accountable for. He already has reason enough to kill you- in his mind, anyway."

Shifting uneasily, Raoul set his cup down, gently moving it away from himself, as though being near it pained him. Forcing a smile, he half-bowed to the both of them, backing quickly towards the door.

"Well!" His tone was terribly uneasy, but with the sudden unease settling into his gut, Raoul didn't particularly care. "Thank you for the tea- it was lovely seeing the both of you again, but- I have a pressing appointment! Yes, I do. Stay well, Madame. Meg, keep me posted on the show?" With that, he ducked out of the room, speeding down the corridors of the Opera Populaire before either Giry could stop him. His head was, unfortunately, reeling from the conversation- knowing Mme. Giry's fondness for the monster in juxtaposition with the ghost's apparent desire to hang him… well. It was enough to make even the most seasoned of men feel faint.

Pursing her lips slightly as she looked to the spot where Raoul had last been, Meg sighed.

"I do hope he's alright, Mama."

"I do as well, dear. The both of them." Pausing a moment, Mme. Giry frowned. More quietly, she continued.

"I just hope Erik does not catch Raoul unprepared. God himself couldn't keep him from murder if the Vicomte has put him in such a mood."

Silently, Meg wondered if this whole mess would ever resolve itself.

* * *

Two chapters in a day? Rather bizarre after a year-and-a-half hiatus, I'm aware. Consider it an apology- I felt horrible for leaving hopeful readers hanging for that long. I know how horrible it is to at least have mild interest in a fic and realize how long it's been dead (that is, assuming you have interest at all. Which I hope you do, considering you're reading this.) Thank you for putting up with my atrocious timeschedule, and to those of you who favorited this, my sincerest apologizes.

This caught my attention again when, this Friday night, my email alerted me I had a watch as well as a review. It was both shocking and flattering, and surprisingly well-timed. Phantom just came to my city, and I happened to get tickets for my birthday- rekindling my love of the series. Admittedly, I'd wanted to resume this, but was scared nobdy would have interest. Apparently, I was wrong.

So… yeah. A year and a half later, I'd like to think I've grown up enough to actually put out something good for you guys, and not leave this dead like the last time. Unfortunately, this go-around, I don't have a Beta, and I sincerely apologize for anything terribly rough or unpolished.

I'm going to try my hardest to get an update a week done, if not more! And ohgod, thank you so much to sylphides, Andi, master of time, courtXjester, IamthePhantomoftheOpera, and Mallie. I hope you guys aren't disappointed horribly by this.

Thank you so much for reading!

-TC


	4. Nightmares

Despite his initial fears otherwise, the Opera Populaire remained generally peaceful for the next couple of days. Of course, had gossip suggested otherwise, he wouldn't of known; fearing an idle mind, Raoul had buried himself in whatever work he could find- bills, contracts, even letters of suggestion and complaint. _Anything_ to keep his mind off a certain ghost who, for all intents and purposes, could kill him at any time. Probably in his own home. And god, that wasn't a grand thing to realize at eleven o'clock at night. He'd faced an unfortunate set of restless nights after that, waking up in a cold sweat from terrifying dreams. Well, not even terrible insomuch as _bizarre._

If it was just one, repetitive dream, Raoul was certain he could handle it- after all, you could actually adjust to what was familiar. But the dreams kept changing themselves up, from the simple to the downright abstract. Rubbing at his eyelids in an attempt to keep himself from dozing, Raoul attempted to focus on the words on the words on the page, and—

_He's alone, oh my god, he's never been so alone in his life. Where is Philippe? Where are his parents? His feet and clothes feel too heavy, and it's so horribly dark… yet he knows the way. It's been such a short time since he came here, but already these walkways are becoming home. But where is here? He fumbles with the tiles before him until he finds the release, and watches as the wall slides away- the sudden light nearly blinds him, and he cannot help the whine that tears from his throat. If he is to survive here, he ought to stop making these visits to the outside world. Antoinette has been nothing but kind, and is trying to help him adjust…_

_He sighs, rubbing at his eyelids in an attempt to keep h- wait. There is a strange texture where is face ought to be, and it's the most horrific feeling in the world. What in god's name…? Whirling about the room, he is frantic. A mirror- there must be a mirror here somewhere. Turning back to the way he came, he realizes the wall he just exited is a mirror- he has to know. Sliding it back slightly- it is all his body has the strength for, it seems- he looks up to face himself._

_And screams._

_The boy looking back at him- it is himself and not himself. He is fantastically, wonderfully beautiful, with soft black hair and delicate cream skin. Truly, he could be the son of nobles. But there- gleaming in the light of the dressing room, a mask stares back at him, devoid and lifeless over his own horrified features. His hands tremble as they make their way to the porcelain mask, peeling it away ever so gently- and where he knows the monstrous face to be, he finds a face that is also his, but is not. The hair there is fair and golden, and his eye a completely different color. But that soon gnarls itself, and turns hideous before his very gaze, and he cannot help but scream again. It is only the feel of arms about his waist and a voice in his ear that compels him to stop.  
"Mon poussin," she croons, as she only does when he is upset. He is still hiccupping in sobs, but having Antoinette here does wonders for the terrors. Turning and burying his face in her shirt- thrown hastily over her outfit for dancing- he attempts to stop the tears._

"_Make it go away! Please, Antoinette, make the monster go away!"_

"_Oh, mon petite poussin, my little Raoul…" there is a soft hand stroking through his hair, and he clings desperately to the girl before him. "Would you like me to sing to you?"_

_  
"Please." It is hoarse, and hurts his throat, but he pleads with her like a victim does his captor. It is the only thing that will drive the monster away._

_  
"Let's get you cleaned up and settled in bed," she whispers gently, lifting him with an ease he never thought possible in a girl. And she carries him towards the dark corridor, back towards his home, gently singing to him. A lullaby, he assumes. The tune seems so familiar, like that of another girl he knew, but the only girl he knew was Christine, and she—_

Raoul started from his desk at the hand on his shoulder, whirling around with a ferocity he hadn't been aware of possessing. Meg- dear, _sweet_ Meg, and not some ghost of a dream- is staring at him with concern and a great level of fear. She took an uneasy step toward him, resting a hand upon his shoulder.

"Raoul, I- are you alright?" She asked quietly, moving the hand from his shoulder to his forehead. Concentrating, her face held an expression similar to one the elder Giry made- a thought which made his already upset stomach lurch.

"Quite alright, Meg. Thank you for your concern." He offered her a sweet smile, which didn't seem to appease her in the slightest. Allowing her hand to fall back to her side, Meg simply regarded him.

"You do not seem warm, but- you have seemed ill lately. At the very least, horribly unlike your usual self. Is something troubling you?" The genuine worry was touching, to say the least. While he spent most of his days at the Populaire, memories of boyhood encounters with the aristocracy still crept up in his mind whenever someone showed genuine kindness. Uneasily rubbing at his neck, Raoul nodded.

"I haven't been sleeping well, is all. Bad dreams. Really weird ones, and they just keep changing," he confessed softly, a slight bit embarrassed to be admitting such a thing. The sudden laughter from Meg made him tense horribly, until he realized that she was flushed with what seemed to be embarrassment.

"If it is about the ghost, Raoul, then there is no need for shame! I-" she looked around suspiciously, here, in the way an actor does when staging a whisper. "I dream of him, too. I think that everyone in the Opera House does. There have been many nights I've woken up, surprised to find myself able to breathe and my neck free of bruises. Sometimes, I think my mind more creative than his!"

He couldn't help but chuckle softly, here, warmed by Meg's attempts to comfort him. Rising from his chair, he gestured for her to follow him, heading out of his office and for the corridors.

"It would seem that way! Should I not know you better, mademoiselle, I would say you had the mind to be the ghost himself!" Raoul paused, his smile turning to a grin. "Or should I say _herself_?"

"Monsieur!" She squealed, burying her face in her hands in an attempt not to laugh. Peeking at Raoul through her fingers, she quickly dissolved into a fit of giggles upon seeing the Vicomte's expression. It lasted no more than a moment, though, as she looked up to him with tight lips and a furrowed brow.

"..Meg?" There was an uneasy stillness in the air, and for a horrible moment, Raoul wondered if he'd done something wrong. Suddenly, Meg grabbed for the cloak he had loosely about his shoulders, pulling it to herself and draping it over one arm. Hiding her face behind it, she leered at him.

"Now that you know, _Vicomte_," she spat the last word in her terrible attempt at a masculine voice, waggling her eyebrows dramatically at him, "you shall not leave this building alive! Beware my magical lass-" Meg paused, then, digging among the cloak and her person frantically. Looking up, she pouted.

"…my magical lasso seems to be missing at the moment. But beware, Vicomte! If your hand is not at the level of your eyes when I see you next, surely you shall die!" For good measure, she swished the cloak dramatically at him, striking what she thought to be a menacing pose.

Raoul was too stunned to comment otherwise. Worse is she did not break character for some time, until the both of them dissolved into hysterical laughter, eventually having to lean against the wall for support. Sliding to the floor as his chest heaved almost painfully, Raoul desperately tried to regain his composure- and failed miserably.

"You- you- I don't even know what to say!" he managed to choke out, falling into another fit of laughter. Meg beamed at him with pride, cheeks flushed and rosy from laughter.

"I'm so sorry to tear you from your work, Raoul, but- now that I have made you laugh, may I ask you a favor?" Wiping the tears from his eyes, Raoul nodded.

"Meg, you have just _made my day_- if not my week! I don't think I'm in the position to deny you anything at the moment." He took his cloak back from her arm, standing up to dust himself off.

"Well!" She began, just as cheerily as before, "we were backstage rehearsing, and Mama went off to- to take care of some business. You know the sort I mean," they were walking, now, toward the stage. Clearly, whatever she needed must've been there. "And one of the newer ballet girls- Hannah? Have you met her? Either way, we were… in an argument, to see if any of us could throw our slippers up to the catwalks." When Raoul raised his eyebrows at her disbelievingly, Meg shrugged.

"I won with pride, monsieur, but now- none of us is able to get them down, and no stagehands seem to be anywhere! They must be out to lunch, or something of the sort. I figured you were still here, an-" raising a hand to silence her, Raoul opened one of the doors to the stage, following behind Meg as she walked in.

"It would be my pleasure to retrieve your slippers, madam." Raoul bustled over to one of the ladders, careful to avoid the other ballerinas who had shuffled in to observe. Hoisting himself onto the rungs, he began to climb, waving down to Meg when she thanked him. It wasn't too terrible an errand- and sure, his rapier was making it a bit hard to climb, but it wasn't a horrible distraction. He'd taken to carrying it since the last encounter with the Phantom, and even though the beast had left him alone since, he hadn't bothered to put it down.

Really, though. It would've been perfectly safe at the bottom with Meg.

Reaching the top, Raoul squinted as he attempted to adjust to the light, on the lookout for the pink slippers. They shouldn't be too terribly difficult to find- pink on black, after all, was a color that stood out. Taking several tentative steps down the catwalk, focused on the task before him, he heard nothing of the footsteps approaching him from behind.

Then again, in the Opera Populaire, few did.

"Looking for something, monsieur?" A terrible voice suddenly hissed in his ear.

…Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing he'd brought his rapier, after all.

* * *

Whew! Another one out, and oh god, let me just say I did _not _expect this chapter to happen. My original intent was for the next chapter to happen, but it felt too forced without another peaceful interlude. I promise you, Erik _is _making an appearance next chapter, and the action will resume again.

I'm so shocked that people are reviewing this and are interested- each chapter is a wonderfully pleasant surprise. I'd love to tell you all what direction this is going in, as _most _of it is figured out in my mind- but little twists keep creeping up, and I don't want to spoil it for you! I can say, however, in response to Mallie- I'm now most definitely considering what became of Mr. Giry, and I've got some wonderful ideas flitting about in my mind. I just hope you're satisfied by the one I pick!

Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, and a special thanks to my new Beta, Emeterius, who's let me bounce ideas off of her and be generally silly all afternoon. Every little comment you guys make is so reassuring!

I'll try to have the next chapter up ASAP, and I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this!

-Trin


	5. World Weary Traveler

Christine, one evening in their short-lived marriage, had confessed to Raoul that she did not like having people whisper in her ear. He had been bewildered, but upon deeper thought, unsurprised; he could easily recall romantic nights where such an action had caused his beloved to tense up or turn away completely. She would never speak of the reason for it, and would simply smile sadly when he asked. The closest he had ever come was one night after a glass of wine when they were strolling in the garden, and she had given him that same, piteous smile.

"I can't explain it, darling. Maybe you'll understand someday."

Unfortunately, he was beginning to understand it now. With the ghost's breath hot and heavy on his ear, Raoul felt his stomach churning in disgust, and shuddered. How had he missed the Phantom's approach? At the very least, he'd hoped he'd have felt an inkling of unease- _something_ to tip him off, but no. And now he was at the demon's mercy, lucky to be uninjured thus far.

"Slippers. Ballet slippers, to be precise," Raoul managed, somehow sounding entirely more confident than he felt. Not wanting to turn and face the man behind him, he barely managed to glance over his shoulder- hissing in pain as the tip of a blade dug into his cheek. Recoiling in a panic, Raoul felt as the metal sliced a gash across his cheek, a fine stream of blood following its path. Drawing his own sword, he intently stared the monster down, not even bothering to wipe his cheek.

"A strange place to look for slippers, no? I was unaware the rats could climb so high," the ghost sneered, lunging toward Raoul with the intent to stab him. Repelling the attack, Raoul was forced several steps backward, causing the unsteady walkway to shift.

"Raoul? Raoul!" Meg's voice barely reached his ears over the clashing of metal, but when he listened intently, he could hear her words. Fending off the man's counterparry (which he really ought to have seen coming- his assault on the ghost's flank was terribly weak, to say the best,) he barely managed to call out to her.

"Meg! Meg, do not panic, but it is the ghost. He-" Any words he might've said died in his throat, however, as a chorus of squeals rose from the girls below. Well. If he'd managed to scare some of them off, at the very least, they'd be safe. For now.

"You disgust me, _monsieur_," the Phantom's words startled Raoul out of his thoughts, accompanied by a particularly powerful blow. Barely managing a counter riposte, Raoul attempted to formulate a response, silenced by a heavy slash toward his torso. Slowly, but surely, he was being forced toward the opposite side of the catwalk- and the plunging fall that would certainly be fatal.

"You had Christine- your beautiful little prize- and you couldn't even _protect_ her! Couldn't save her!" The man seemed to grow stronger and faster with emphasis on every word, making it harder and harder for Raoul to stay standing. The lack of sleep was catching up to him, making every step heavier and every blow worse."

"—lost to a boy like _you_, who can't even—" but the words faded from Raoul's mind, head pounding too heavily to even hear what the monster was saying. Instead, he was focusing on staying upright, breathing, and _not_ getting killed- which was a great deal more difficult than he'd have liked it to be. The seconds felt like minutes and the minutes like hours; he could feel the sweat beading down his forehead, and occasionally stinging the raw cut on his cheek.

"Are you even listening, _boy_?" The ghost snarled, his voice venomous with disgust and hatred. Attempting to sputter out a response- _anything_ to keep the monster from killing him- Raoul's grip on his sword weakened, and the weapon was thrown from his hands upon their next clash.

And what a terrible position to be in _this_ was- defenseless against the Phantom of the Opera. Swallowing heavily, Raoul took an inching step away from the ghost- and his sword. Not breaking eye contact with the man- and gods, why _was_ he noticing the golden-green hue at a time like this- he faltered a moment, unsure of what to do. Then, in a moment of panic, he dove—

—only to be stopped short by the jolting pain of a boot colliding with his wrist. Vision hazing, Raoul curled inward slightly, desperately writhing in an attempt to free his hand. The ghost, as if sensing this, pressed down hard, causing Raoul to cry out in pain. He wasn't going to last much longer like this- especially considering the man intended to kill him.

"Are you satisfied, _Vicomte_? I was perfectly content to leave you- each of us living his individual life- when you decided to come mock the monster." Another application of pressure, and Raoul's head was swimming with pain.

"Are you happy with what you've seen? You've woken the Leviathan, monsieur, and clearly were unable to handle it. What made you think you were ready?" He spat, grinding against Raoul's wrist for good measure. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, Raoul barely steadied himself.

"L-love, ghost. I came to-"

"To flaunt Christine's love of you in my face?!" The ghost was yelling now, enough to echo in the high walks of the theater. Shaking his head, Raoul pulled on his wrist- hoping to at least throw the ghost off balance.

Unfortunately, he found himself with no such luck.

"No, monsieur, she loved _you_- even to the end, it was you!" Raoul nearly sobbed, pain and exhaustion clouding any cares he had of how the ghost perceived him. At the very least, the man lifted his boot from Raoul's wrist at his words- seemingly shocked out of his mockery.

"What did you say?"

"She asked me," Raoul rasped in between breaths, drawing his arm close to him as he sat upright, "to find you. To tell you she loved you to her last, all of this time. I- It was her last wish."

A heavy silence hung between them for a moment's time, and Raoul wondered vaguely if he was being spared. Quickly, this thought was dispelled, as his white shirt- now mottled with blood, if he was seeing correctly- was fisted in the ghost's gloved hand and used to hoist him to his feet.

"I would _not_ have expected you to stoop so low, Vicomte. Do you truly wish to wound me that deeply?" The ghost hissed in Raoul's face, forcing the man to close his eyes in discomfort.

"N-no, I-"

"_Quiet! _I have heard _enough_ of your lies, you slanderous mongrel! Are you so desperate to satisfy your own ego that you would hound me to my grave?" Wincing at the raising volume of the ghost's voice, Raoul could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. He was going to die here. He was going to die, and they'd never find his body, and—

"Monsieurs!" The familiar voice snapped Raoul's eyes open, and he whirled his head to the side- nearly choking when he saw Madame Giry at the edge of the catwalk, arms crossed and look murderous.

"You shall _not_ cause such a ruckus in this Opera House! Not only have you horrified my girls, you have frightened my daughter, and _you _-" this was clearly directed at the ghost, who had also turned his attention to the older woman, "are about to murder the man who rebuilt the Populaire _and_ funds it! What will you do if this building fails?" She snapped, unafraid of the ghost's clenching hand around his sword. Raoul felt the ghost's grip of his shirt slacken a moment, before suddenly pulling him to an uncomfortable distance once more.

"Do _not_ mistake me, monsieur- I do not spare you now because she tells me to. I am no man's dog," he snarled, dropping Raoul to the catwalk with a _thud_.

"You have your life today because you twice spared mine. The favors have both now been repaid. I would suggest _not_ lying to me in _my_ opera again." And with a swish of his cape, he was off, disappearing into the darkness.

Closing his eyes, Raoul let out an uneasy breath he had not been aware he was holding. The last he heard was his own name- _thank god for Mme. Giry!_- before darkness overtook him.

* * *

((A/N: GOD, SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! Spring Break got me terribly carried away, and I kept getting whisked away from the internet when I sat to work on this. Seriously, I did so many random things over this break! But it was stupidly fun, so I can't really complain.

Good lord, hard scenes are harder to write than I believed. I might do ONE more of these, because I really don't have enough knowledge of fencing and swords to write this. I hope you didn't hate it!

Thank you again to all of my readers/reviewers!

IamthePhantomoftheOpera- Oh god, I'm so flattered by that, you have no idea! Be my guest, I'd love to see that! 3

Mallie- I might have to have poor Meg talk to Erik about that. Not entirely sure how to, though. I might work on that relationship when I try working on Madame Giry again...

xXxMusexXx- that enough of a Raoul!beating for you?

Khammoun- In the book, Giry was afraid of Erik, but I really didn't get that impression from the movie. The show had bits of it, so I tried to wrap it all into something original. And I always see Meg being passive, but she's one of my favorite characters- I had to give her something to go on!

Anyway! I'll stop rambling, and thank you so much for the read! Next chapter soon!

-Trin


	6. Disbelief

As he slowly drifted into consciousness, Raoul was aware of three things: he was (presumably) not dead, he had a terrible headache, and there were people talking. His first fact was mostly an assumption based on the other two; were this Heaven, people would _not_ be talking while he had a headache- in fact, he would not have a headache at all! Well, he might be in Hell- but of all the possibilities presented, that seemed the most unlikely. Hell, in Raoul's mind, was a dark cellar of the Opera Populaire. With a ghost and Christine passionately kissing. Fortunately, no kissing seemed to be happening, so Raoul was safe from condemnation for now.

Still- his headache persisted, and he did not particularly feel up to talking, so he remained silent in an attempt to fall back asleep. Being awake was far more painful than it had any right to be.

"-ik, you cannot expect me to sit idly by and watch you kill him! He is a Vicomte, our patron, and a friend to my daughter." The woman paused here. "I am quite fond of him as well."

"He is a liar, Madame. I cannot abide with him using her memory to deceive me." The man, this time- and if Raoul was hearing things correctly, he sounded considerably like the Opera Ghost.

"He was not lying! I have seen the Vicomte try to lie, and he is a terrible liar; whatever he has said to you was said in honesty. For god's sake, why would he try to provoke you? He has nothing to gain from it!" At this point, the noise level was getting to be a bother- Raoul groaned slightly in frustration, forgetting that the others were unaware of his consciousness.

"And look here! You cannot even let the boy recover without torment!" She hissed, tone taking quite a familiar scolding nature. "He has not fought you this time- only shown you kindness- and this! This is how you treat him."

"No one, _madame_," the Ghost snarled, "has intentionally shown me kindness, with the exception of yourself."

"Maybe," the woman spoke softly, and Raoul swore he could hear something akin to heartbreak in her voice, "they would- if you'd let them."

"I do not think—"

"Exactly," she snapped, just as Raoul felt consciousness slipping once more. Maybe he _was_ still asleep, he thought, and this was all just a dream. The ghost being even semi-amicable seemed entirely implausible. Tucked away into the land of Nod once more, Raoul paid no notice to the golden eyes lingering on his sleeping form.

* * *

When Raoul found himself waking next, it was morning; the sunlight splayed warmly across his neck, and the smell of breakfast still lingered in the room. Sitting up shakily, Raoul ran a hand over his face- clean, surprisingly- and attempted to regain his bearings.

"Mama tended to you in the night. You weren't sleeping easily," came Meg's voice from right in front of him. Squinting as to better see her, Raoul gave his eyes a moment to adjust. When the world was no longer blurry, he flashed her his best smile.

Which turned into a yawn, and just sent Meg into a giggling fit.

"Well. I'm glad to see you looking better, Raoul. We were all worried when you passed out after the fight. Mama and I had quite a hard time getting you down." As she said this, she brought the tray of food over to him, carefully setting it in his lap. Raoul couldn't help but grin, eager to eat a decent meal.

"Even the ghost came to visit."

…Maybe he wasn't hungry after all. Face draining of its color, Raoul looked up to Meg in a panic, who couldn't suppress a small giggle.

"No, no monsieur! He was… concerned. To say the least, Mama and I were surprised." They weren't the only ones; still panicked at the thought of the monster, Raoul could not fathom such an act. He remained silent, unsure of how to respond to the idea. Why had the ghost come? To try and murder him in his sleep? …No, that couldn't be it; had that been so, he would likely already be dead. Chewing on his thoughts while he ate, the room was silent for some time. More than he'd like to admit, Raoul was nervous, weary, and hungry- probably growing hungrier the more worried he became.

"He wished to speak with you." Meg added quietly, still in cheery spirits. Giving her a cautious eye, Raoul raised his cup to his lips. Oh, he could definitely use this.

"He? I thought we'd been over this, O.G." Raoul falsely sneered, trying his hardest not to laugh. When Meg gave him a look of confusion, he lowered the cup, staring dead into her eyes. She'd fallen for it, then.

"All the notes are signed O.G. I finally figured you out, Meg. Or should I say… _Outlaw Giry_." This was accompanied by a dramatic point, as well as the comic waggling of an eyebrow. The effect was instantaneous- they both dissolved into laughter, Meg snorting a few times in her inability to control it. Raoul, on the other hand, was busy trying to _not_ spill his breakfast all over himself. Just when they'd both managed to nearly calm themselves, the pounding music of an organ swept into the room, and they were both lost to hysteria once more.

"Y-you even have _dramatic music._ Oh god, you will _never_ convince me that this is not hilarious," Raoul stammered, clutching the sheets of the bed to steel his resolve. This joke was terrible- and knowing them, was probably unlikely to die. Coughing in an attempt to settle herself, Meg fanned at herself.

"O-oh god, Raoul, that was _horrible._ Even for you!"

"Meg, be happy I guessed what I did. My second choice was Orange." She stifled a laugh here, leaning over to swat at Raoul.

"Eat your breakfast and _stop_ making me laugh! Honestly, Raoul, were I the ghost, I'd have hanged you for being a fop a long time ago!" Her humor faded slightly as she sat more properly in her seat, folding her hands daintily in her lap.

"In all seriousness, though, he would like to speak with you. He has left a letter for you on the nightstand. Mama said to let you finish breakfast, but I figured- might as well get it out of the way now."

They were both staring at it, then- not that Raoul had any idea of Meg's interest in its contents- attempting to figure out what it might contain. During the span of their conversation, Raoul had somehow managed over half of his meal. At the sight of the seal, however, he'd lost any further interest in food. Caught somewhere between fleeing from the room and tearing the letter to shreds, he remained at an impasse. Unease lingered in the room, until Meg finally shook him from his thoughts.

"Well read it already! I waited and didn't open it early- but I _have_ to know what he's said!" Had it been on anything else, Raoul might've laughed- flashing Meg a sympathetic smile, he tentatively reached for the letter. Hand shaking horribly, he carefully pried the seal open, and read the contents aloud.

"Monsieur;

Though it is unlike me to do so, I apologize for our misunderstanding this previous ending. It is my desire that such an event does not occur between us again; I do not believe myself capable of training another patron to handle my demands as well as you. Please attend the first showing of The Marriage of Figaro; your seat shall be in Box Five, where I hope we shall clear the air between us.

Your Humble Servant,

O.G."

As soon as he finished reading, Raoul looked up to Meg, curious to see her reaction. Her brow was contorted in confusion, as if trying to figure something out. Raising a brow at him, he shrugged at her unasked question.

"Will you attend, Raoul?" She asked quietly.

"I believe I have no other choice. My only question is…" he paused, glancing down to the letter once more. She followed his gaze silently.

"..did he just _make a joke?_"

* * *

A/N: I LEARNED HOW TO MAKE PAGE-BREAKS. THIS IS MORE EXCITING THAN IT SHOULD BE.

After struggling so much with the last chapter, I'm REALLY happy this one came out so well! And let me just say- I've got plans for the next couple of chapters that have me stupidly giddy over. I hope y'all are enjoying Meg as much as I am- she's going to be taking a back seat in a bit, so I'm trying to play with a strong female character while I can. And oh god, I'm rambling again.

Thank you all for the reviews and favs! Many thanks to my lovely, LOVELY beta readers who have put up with stupid doodles, random rants, and many other horrors. Chapter Seven is in the works, and will be coming soon!


	7. Countdown

The next few weeks seemed to pass in a flurry of activity; before Raoul was even aware the time had passed, it was three days until opening night—three days until his meeting with the Opera Ghost. He buried himself in work, busily planning seating, tickets, and attempting to help backstage—anything to keep his mind from wandering. His time in the navy had fortunately served him well; set pieces were easy to move, even in his usual dressy attire. In one such instance, Raoul had retreated to a dark corner of the stage in order to simply breathe. Closing his eyes, Raoul sighed and tried to relax. The cool stage air was pleasant on his sore, aching muscles, and he thought of nothing—only how pleasant it felt to _breathe._ He would not worry about the show, or Christine, or The Phantom. He would not. He w—

"_Three days, _Vicomte."

With a start, Raoul was on his feet, darting as far from the shadows as humanly possible. Chest heaving, he jumped into another task—anything to distract himself from his thoughts. Meg had given him a strange look when he'd worked himself into a frenzy, but thankfully made no comment on the matter. For the rest of the day, Raoul exhausted himself, burying himself in any task he could handle. He would not look over his shoulder to check for a mask lurking in the shadows. Whether it truly was the ghost or his own imagination, he really did not wish to know. Both prospects, in their own right, were horrifying. And Raoul didn't particularly care for either.

* * *

Two days before the show, Raoul did not make his way to the Opera Populaire. Stress and fatigue had finally caught up to him, and he had been forced to conduct business from his bed. All day, letters had traveled to and from the de Chagny estate- last minute invitations requiring approval, suggestions for dress code and other trivialities of that nature. Nothing terribly tedious, thankfully; it was a day of well-deserved rest, and he enjoyed it to its absolute fullest.

Eventually, Raoul had worked up the strength to take a meal in the dining hall- a fine lamb, made especially since he was under the weather. When he had started into the course, relishing the meal, a butler quietly entered the room, a note tucked delicately into his hand. There was a moment of distress, when Raoul thought, "_Now what?"_ but the butler quickly dispelled his worries.

"From the Opera Populaire, sir. The sender simply wrote 'Giry'." And wasn't that a relief! Taking the letter with a simple "thank you," Raoul read over what Meg had written, and could not help the laugh which escaped him.

_Raoul:_

_You are working yourself to death, and I am putting my foot down. You are returning to the Opera Populaire tomorrow, and we shall be taking lunch at my favorite café. You, of course, will be paying. Make no attempts to escape this horrendous fate, for you shall find yourself entirely unsuccessful. I have prepared the perfect maniacal laugh should you consider such a course of action._

_Your most prideful servant,_

_Outlaw Giry_

"_Thank God for Meg_," Raoul found himself thinking, tucking the note into his jacket with a smile. Mind at ease, he resumed his meal, content to forget his business with the Opera for the day. When the butler cleared his throat, however, Raoul looked up with a start.

"Oh! Yes. You may go now, thank you. You've been a wonderful help today." The butler muttered under his breath—swearing, from what Raoul could tell—and revealed another note to the Vicomte. The all-too-familiar seal caused Raoul's face to drain of color.

"This was on the front step, sir. I could not find any notation of sender." Unfortunately for Raoul, no notice was needed—the blood red skull was more than enough. Swallowing his fears as best possible, he tore open the envelope with a trembling hand. And he read.

_Vicomte:_

_I hope your illness does not stem from our upcoming meeting. It would plague me to no end to know that you missed the performance because of my presence. Two days, monsieur. Pray your health recovers by then._

_O.G._

The page before him swam no matter how Raoul looked at it—he wondered, vaguely, if he _could_ recover by the time the two days had expired. Psychological trauma might have finally done him in by then.

Maybe the ghost would take satisfaction in knowing he'd driven him insane.

* * *

The final day, Raoul could not keep himself from looking over his shoulder—even among the bustling passers-by of Paris, the general dread and unease would not leave him. Meg, as if sensing his plagues, wrapped an arm about his own and smiled softly at him.

"You will be fine, love. He will not harm you. As much as he might hate it, we need you—_he_ needs you." There was a look of earnest in her eyes that made Raoul want to believe her—to take her words to heart and not worry about tomorrow. Still, his heart pounded in his chest and his throat ran dry; all of his instincts screamed for him to turn and flee. The only thing keeping him grounded was his friend's resolve.

The café, while wonderful, proved to be just as unnerving. It was charming and quaint- Meg's personal favorite—but Raoul could not help but jumping at every dark shadow that crossed his line of vision. He had ordered a salad, on Meg's suggestion, and was carefully eating it in silence. Conversation occasionally arose, but died in the terrible unease that seemed to hang in the air.

"I am glad you're staying," Meg blurted suddenly, not looking up to Raoul. He could see, if he looked closely, a slight flush taking her cheeks. Her eyes were fixed pointedly, unmoving, on her meal. "I do not think I could bear it here without you."

"Meg…"

"It is nearly murderous—if not heart-breaking—to be in the Opera anymore," she confessed softly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Setting down his fork, Raoul tentatively reached across the table, taking Meg's small hand within his own.

"I do not think _I _could survive without _you._" Raising her hand to his lips, Raoul planted a delicate kiss upon the knuckles, and smiled. "You are the dearest and most wonderful friend a man could ask for," he murmured, staring her straight in the eye. "I would likely have taken my life if not for your company. I promise you, Meg; if Don Juan Triumphant did not chase me off, a simple meeting with the Ghost will not make me leave you. I am…the Ruth to your Naomi, for an accurate assessment." It took her a moment to understand, if he was reading her expression correctly; her brow furrowed, and after a minute or so, her eyebrows rose in comprehension. The gesture was enough to color her cheeks and spill a single tear from her eye.

"'Where I lodge, you shall lodge'—hm." She took a sip of her drink, finally tearing her hand away from his.

"I did not take you for a religious man, Raoul."

"I did not take myself for one. Simply memories of childhood studies, is all." He admitted, a nervous laugh escaping him.

"My question," Meg continued, suddenly smiling mischievously "is when did the Phantom fall under classification as 'my people'?" Raoul snorted in laughter, giving Meg an indignant look.

"He has to be _someone's_ people…Person…Phantom." They were both grinning now, clearly far too entertained by the current situation.

"Does that mean I'm _your_ Phantom, Raoul?" Meg asked is a sickeningly sweet tone, batting her eyelashes in coy manner. Raoul rolled his eyes.

"Meg, I love you, but I cannot be expected to be a one-Phantom man. I am in such high demand, you know." As if to prove how desirable he was, Raoul tossed his hair over his shoulders. It was an observation he'd made of some of the countesses at parties he'd attended- even of some of the chorus girls, when they felt particularly assured of their looks. Meg, bewildered by this, and trying her hardest not to laugh, opened to her mouth to make some (theoretically) snippy comment in return.

She instantly silenced herself when one of the café's waiters came up and handed Raoul the check for their meal. Nodding, Raoul took it from the man, intending to pay so he and Meg could go for a stroll about Paris. When he opened the check, however, he was forced to clamp a hand over his mouth to prevent a yelp from escaping at the sight before him.

"Raoul? Raoul! What's wrong?!" Meg asked, nearly jumping out of her chair. Quickly putting money into the check, Raoul stood, moving away from the table.

"Nothing, Meg, nothing at all! I just need a walk. What do you say, love?" He asked, offering his arm out to her. Glancing between him and the table, as the waiter took the check and left, she bit her lip—but said nothing. She took his arm, and the two hurried from the café, Raoul barely staying upright out of shock.

An opened envelope lay haphazardly on the table. In it was a single note, reading simply:

_Tomorrow._

_

* * *

_

So remember how I said Erik this chapter? ...Funny story. I started writing these as a lead-in to this chapter- in a notebook! So I get home to type this up, and it ends up hitting about 987 words. Alright, I think. I'll just- I'll make the last section super short, and then have a really long chapter with Erik! That should work!

And then I started writing Meg, and it all fell apart. I'm SO sorry, seriously. But I PROMISE, next chapter is already in the works, and should be complete by tomorrow night- if not extremely early this morning/tomorrow. ...If that makes sense.

Even though there's no DIRECT Erik, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for reading!

-Trin


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